


No Resolution

by violetvaria



Category: MacGyver (TV 2016)
Genre: Angst, Father issues, Gen, Heavy Angst, James is dying, No Plot/Plotless, POV First Person
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-21
Updated: 2019-04-21
Packaged: 2020-01-23 15:42:29
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 843
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18552781
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/violetvaria/pseuds/violetvaria
Summary: I am in the hospital, staring at the shell of the man I am told is my father.~~~James MacGyver is dying. His son visits his hospital room.





	No Resolution

**Author's Note:**

> WARNING: Non-graphic implication of impending character death (James). He does not die in this piece, however.
> 
> To James fans and James haters alike, my apologies. I have no business attempting to write the canon relationship between Mac and his father, having seen, to date, only the first season of _MacGyver_.
> 
> When I left my father's hospital room today, I wrote this from my own point of view, unable to help myself, and then tweaked it only very slightly to be from Mac's perspective. This means the voice is probably off and the work definitely raw. Proceed with caution, or feel free to abandon this now.

I am in the hospital, staring at the shell of the man I am told is my father.

Not that there is any doubt about his identity, of course. Although I’ve seen him very little in the past few years, I know, obviously, who he is.

It’s just strange to refer to him as my father.

Biology cannot be denied. I am too much like him not to share his DNA. His intelligence, his overriding pragmatism, his ability to be clinical, technical, dispassionate. Aloof. His expert compartmentalization. His need for control.

Because he did control my life, or at least shape it, even after I thought I was out from under his influence.

I did not inherit his lack of empathy, his inability to understand another person’s point of view, for which I am usually thankful. However, if I had, this might actually be easier. I might not be…conflicted. Constricted. Confused.

Standing here, the man sedated and needing machines to breathe, I am forcibly reminded of the past. Fragments of memories that I can’t guarantee are true recollections at all, bits and trivialities that may or may not have occurred. Hugs that even as a child felt awkward with simulated emotion. Calling me “baby” with what seemed to be genuine affection until my mother made him stop. Making me wooden toys with his own hands, painting them with the colors he thought were best, not with my favorites. Expectations of perfect grades in school. Birthday money. Random pop quizzes asked in passing, and offhand praise when I gave correct answers. _How do you spell ‘radioactivity’? Can you read a 300-page book? What is the Pythagorean Theorem?_

He loved me in his own way. I know that. It was not the way a child needed to be loved, it was perhaps not even a shadow of what real love is—I don’t know. But I think in the way that he could, in the only way open to him, he loved me.

That makes damn-all difference now.

There is nothing I can do. I hate being helpless, and I hate not knowing how far I would go, or how far I wouldn’t go, to help if I could. I understand how the machines work, and the sight of the six tubes in the side of his neck doesn’t bother me, but there is still nothing for me to do. Nothing to fix. Nothing to repair.

It might be too late for fixes anyway.

I used to tell myself that the past didn’t matter. After all, I am a capable, productive adult, a person who helps others, a person who has friends and loved ones, a person who does good work—important work—and does it well. Which means every part of my history helped me become this person.

That’s what I would say to make it okay, and it usually worked. But it doesn’t seem to matter now.

There is a heaviness, a feeling weighing me down that I can’t name. It isn’t grief, nor did I really expect it to be. It isn’t anger; it isn’t gladness; it isn’t relief, any of which I might have anticipated. It might be simply be weariness. I’m just tired. Tired of not knowing what will happen. Tired of trying to make things right when they can never be right. Tired of dragging around a pockmarked past, broken pieces that never manage to fit together. I’m just tired of it all.

Coming here, in the elevator up to the ICU, I expected to be numb, to not feel anything. That would almost be preferable. Instead, my nerves are screaming, on edge, waiting for…something. Waiting for the resolution I’ve been desiring my entire life.

Waiting for something that will never happen.

I have to leave soon. I don’t know when I’ll get back in town, so this might be the last time I see him alive. It should be meaningful.

But I don’t know what it’s supposed to mean.

He is unlikely to wake, they tell me. He will never be responsive. Anything I have to say is too late, even if I thought it would do any good.

What would I say, anyway? I cannot force another lie through my lips, can’t say _I love you_ to a man I hardly know. I can’t say _thank you_ or _I’m glad you were—are—my dad_. Maybe _I hope you aren’t suffering_? That, I suppose, is true enough, but the IV drip is doing more for that than any banalities I can offer. _Goodbye_?

How does one say goodbye for the last time? Would he even want me to?

It’s just as well that speaking isn’t an option.

There will be no resolution. There will be no final acknowledgement, no apology, no acceptance. There will be nothing but…nothing. He will be gone.

And I will keep living. And he will be gone.

Nothing I can do to change that. No way to know if I want to change that.

He will be gone. That’s all.


End file.
